Incomplete Recipes



1.Cooking by Mother's Hands

My mother was a silent artist—her canvas was the kitchen, and her brush was a wooden spatula. As a child, our mornings would begin with the smell of light ghee. Little did I know that one day this smell would become the most precious memory of my life.

She never wrote down recipes. Cooking was her body language—the touch of her hands, the size of her eyes, the projection of her nose.

"A pinch of salt, a spoonful of love," she would say. I would laugh. Now I understand, love was the most important ingredient.

2.Incomplete Recipes

When my mother fell ill, I was caught up in the busy life of the city. There were very few opportunities to be by her side. She would say over and over, "You have to teach me a new chutney. I make it with brinjal and mustard, it's exactly like grandma's recipe."

I would say every time, "I'll come and learn it next week, Mom. Where's the time!"

But that 'next week' never came.

No matter how much I search for the taste of that chutney after Mom left, I can't find it.

3. The cooking notebook is missing

Mom left behind a sari cupboard, some old dishes, and a set of her favorite red cups. But there's no cooking notebook.

I believed she might have hidden it somewhere. One day, while rummaging through the cupboard, I found an old envelope with some torn paper inside. It read:

Tomato pickle:

1. Tomatoes – 5

2. Fenugreek – a pinch

3. ? –

The third ingredient is missing. The rest is incomplete. Just like the last words with my mother.

4. Kitchen of Memories

After my mother left, I entered the kitchen for the first time with different eyes.

The kitchen seemed to want to talk. Mother's handprints on the wall, the reflection of her smile next to the stove, and old memories accumulated in the sink.

I tried to make some of her recipes in my own way. Khichuri, mustard hilsa, shrimp with coconut. But somewhere there was a gap.

That "mother-feeling" does not come in any place.

5. Telephone Recipe

When I was abroad when my mother was alive, she used to say on the phone, "Can you make pais at your in-laws' house?"

I used to say, "You tell me, I'll write it down."

She would laugh, "What if I write it down? Just try it, that's it."

Those phone calls don't happen anymore, but those words still ring in my ears.

6. The emptiness of tradition

One day my daughter came and said, "Mom, cook Khichuri like Grandma."

I kept quiet.

I don't know how to make it like Grandma. I only know about the scent of her smile, which used to be mixed with cooking. This is where the tradition is being broken.

Our generation is adept at technology, but we are losing out on taste, smell, and tradition.

7. Finding myself

I decided—I have to fill this gap. Even if it's not exactly like Mom, I have to bring back that taste at least to some extent.

I called my old relatives, "Do you remember Mom's brinjal-mustard chutney?"

Some had fragmentary memories. Some said, "She used to add tamarind." Some said, "You had to add a drop of mustard oil on top."

I searched and made each recipe. Sometimes my eyes got wet. Sometimes it feels like my mother is standing next to me and saying, "There's a little less salt!"

8.Unfinished recipes

I may never know the incomplete recipes my mother left behind. But there is a kind of perfection in that imperfection.

Because those recipes weren't just food—they were my mother's touch, her love, her history.

My current cooking doesn't follow a recipe, but rather follows memories.

9. The new language of inheritance

Today I teach my daughter to cook. I don't say "Give me a spoonful of spices." I say, "Remember what Grandma used to do."

She is learning, along with taste, the inheritance of love.

10. Final words

Cooking is not just a kitchen job. Cooking is a kind of reminiscing, a search for self-identity, and preserving the legacy of love.

My mother may not have left behind a complete recipe for a chutney. But he left behind a scent of love that still lingers around me today.

This story is a tribute to those imperfect recipes that will forever keep us hungry—not just for the stomach, but for the heart.